


Heroes in the making

by un_petit_peu_de_moi



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Reality, FC Barcelona, M/M, Minor Character Death, Temporary Character Death, no kids no wives, or as many kids and wives as I want, superheroes & powers, tags likely to change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-11-17 12:54:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11275698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/un_petit_peu_de_moi/pseuds/un_petit_peu_de_moi
Summary: Neymar wakes up in ruins. Nothing is really the same after that.--A storm hit the world and some Barcelona players wake up with unexpected abilities. They deal with it.





	1. The invisible and nonexistent look very much alike

**Author's Note:**

> Hello.
> 
> I've had this idea for a while - actually when it first came to me Dani Alves was still at Barça and I was struggling to find him a power. Which I didn't have to do in the end, eh.  
> Anyway, here is a superhero AU, which is more of a getting-powers-and-???ing-about-it AU. It will features ROMANCE and LOVE, and other stuff. I'll have a busy summer so I can't promise any update or make any schedule, but I've finished every fic I've started, so there's that.
> 
> A few notes :  
> \- "Camp Nou" is the name of Barcelona stadium. It has a capacity of 99 354 persons.  
> \- this fic is set in an alternate reality, meaning everyone is still football players as usual, and it deviates from there. I'm also making this an AR where players (at least some of them) don't have kids or partners.  
> \- this fic is set at the end of the 2016/2017 season but it doesn't reference any particular match. It happens at the end of the season, so towards May.  
> \- the title for this chapter comes from a quote by Delos B. McKown, _"The invisible and nonexistent look much alike._. To be honest I have no idea who this dude is.  
>  \- the first two chapters shall be fairly angsty, but it should get better after that.
> 
> That said : enjoy !

1 minute left.

 

The crowd was cheering. His teammates grouped around him – Arda’s beard tickling his face, Leo’s arm holding his waist, Geri’s laughter almost louder than the crowd. Any second now, the referee would blow the whistle. Any second now, the victory would be theirs and any second now they would be winning La Liga again.

 

30 seconds left.

 

Busquets kicked the ball, Andrès gave it back. Luis received the ball and shot it backwards, towards Masche and Gerard.

 

20 seconds left.

 

They were wasting time, playing with their opponents’ nerves. The other team protested but it didn’t matter, because the game was already decided.

 

10 seconds left.

 

He smiled at Leo when their eyes met, both ecstatic and high on glory. If there was one thing that felt better than winning, it was winning alongside the best player in the world.

 

5 seconds left.

 

Sergi passed back to Marc-André.

 

Two seconds left.

 

Marc-André controlled the ball and looked ahead. Aimed. Kicked.

 

The whistle blew.

 

The sky exploded.

 

 

–

 

 

First, there was the taste of dust on his tongue, mixed with something metallic that reminded him of blood. His throat was dry, so dry he barely managed to swallow down that awful taste in his mouth.

There was also the feel of heavy weights pinning him down. His limbs were sore, and his hands could only grasp at stones and gravel – nothing like the soft grass he should be laying on.

 

Neymar inhaled deeply. Nothing was left of the smell of wet soil and sweat that was normally clinging to the pitch. Instead, there was an overwhelming odor of smoke and dust that made his nostrils itch and his lungs burn.

 

He strained his ears – there was the agitation of a crowd, something hurried, something subdued. There were voices he didn’t recognize. It didn’t sound anything like the thousands of people that had been cheering for him in Camp Nou.

 

_(it’s a child, I think this one is alive!)_

 

_(focus on the living)_

 

_(I could have been there, I should have been there)_

 

He finally opened his eyes, and wished he’d kept them closed.

 

The scene was blurry at first, and he wasn’t sure he’d opened his eyes because all he could see was gray upon gray upon different shades of gray. It took him a few seconds to realize he was looking at stones. Big, heavy blocks of stone, a few rays of sunlight filtering through the mass, random pieces of plastic, random pieces of iron and his eyes fixated on something that looked like a chair. A blue chair, and a torn _blaugrana_ flag stuck between two rocks, its colors dimmed by dust.

 

 _Ruins_ , he realized. He was lying in ruins.

 

He gasped, panic bursting at once in his brain, his heart exploding with every painful heartbeat. He started scratching the cold, unforgiving stones, frantic as he tried to find a way out to escape from the nightmare he’d been thrown in.

 

He closed his eyes, clenched them shut to shy away from the scene, shy away from a reality where he was lying in ruins. Where he was lying in the ruins of Camp Nou.

 

He closed his eyes and cried, until his brain finally allowed him to fall back into nothingness.

 

 

–

 

 

The second time he woke up, he felt calmer.

 

There was no light filtering through the rocks and he guessed it must have been night. He tried to turn, to figure out his situation. His legs seemed to be stuck under a block of stone, but with effort, he managed to slip them out, scratching his knees and tearing his shorts as he moved inside the small space he’d been given. He felt his shin guards give away, tearing his shoe laces as they went. From then on he only had to push a few stones and slip through a few holes wide enough for him to pass, but not wide enough that he didn’t gain cuts and bruises in the process, until he was finally able to access the outside world.

 

He could still hear voices but they were fewer and softer.

 

He was dirty, damp, sweaty and bloody. His shorts stuck to his body, and he belatedly realized he must have peed himself. His back hurt, and he remembered a sharp pain, something terrible and intense that had struck him and broken his spine into millions tiny pieces. He shuddered at the memory, unable and unwilling to fully grasp it.

 

He didn’t feel any pain now though. He wondered if he had dreamed it.

 

He stood up carefully on a block of stone that had been blocking him under, and took in the full sight of Camp Nou, of the beautiful stadium he’d grown to call a home and that was now nothing more than ruins. He looked around the pitch, but he didn’t see any familiar faces. There were no teammates, no players, no referees, no coaches. No spectators in the stands. No stands.

 

Blocks upon blocks of ruins.

 

He needed to get out of here. He needed to go back home.

 

He climbed down his perch, walking from rock to rock to make his way out of the war zone. The blocks got bigger as he neared the edge of the stadium. The stones on what used to be the pitch were smaller and fewer than on the outskirts of the field, looking more like a sea of rocks than a mountain of heavy blocks of stone. Neymar guessed that was why he was still alive.

 

He stopped to stare at the few groups of people who were busy digging through the ruins, poorly lit by white lanterns as they uncovered bodies – _dead_ – after bodies – _all of them_ _dead_.

 

 _Ninety_ _nine_ _thousands_ _three hundreds_ _fifty four_ _people_ , his mind supplied.

 

Neymar made his way towards the group nearest to him. They spoke in soft tones, their words undecipherable and their faces grave even from afar. They didn’t notice his arrival.

 

“Excuse me,” he called when he was close enough.

 

The man closest to him startled and whipped around. Neymar waited expectantly, hoping for something along the lines of recognition and relief, a _‘thank god, your teammates ha_ _ve_ _been looking for you’_.

 

The man scanned the horizon. His eyes were tired but feverish, searching eagerly for something, looking past him and through him all at once. He frowned and, after a few seconds, turned back around.

 

Neymar’s brows furrowed. “I-”

 

“Did you say something?” the man said, turning to a woman on his left.

 

“Hm? No, why?”

 

“I thought I’d heard something. Never mind.”

 

The woman frowned. “A survivor?” she asked, hope tinting her voice.

 

The man hesitated. “I don’t know.”

 

Neymar looked at them, confused and lost at the scene.

 

“Hey,” he called, louder this time.

 

The duo stood straight, attentive and alert.

 

“You heard that right?”

 

The woman nodded in answer, and turned around. “Hey, can you hear me?” she shouted in Neymar’s direction. Her eyes looked everywhere, searching the horizon almost desperately.

 

“I’m here,” Neymar answered, voice shaky and high-pitched. He felt feverish, angry and scared at the complete lack of recognition on the duo’s face. They were looking for him yet neither the man nor the woman seemed to be looking _at_ him.

 

They both sucked in a breath, and immediately took forward, shouting at others to follow them. They marched forward, towards Neymar, but brushed past him, bumped into him without so much as a confused look backwards, before getting back to their task.

 

Neymar stood still, frozen in place as the dim light of the lanterns followed the small group, drifting away and leaving only the powerful shouts of _where are you? Can you hear us?_ _We’re coming, stay calm_.

 

Neymar stayed there for a while, listening to their voices grow more defeated by the second as their questions found no answer, because who they were looking for had been right in front of them, and they hadn’t seen him.

 

They hadn’t seen him.

 

“I need to go home,” Neymar whispered, his voice scratching his throat.

 

He needed to go home, get out of here, go somewhere things made sense. Go somewhere _he_ made sense.

 

 

–

 

 

Nothing made sense.

 

The streets were empty, even as the sun rose, even as the night made way for the day and it was time for cars to take over the roads.

 

The city was empty.

 

He walked, stumbled in Barcelona for what felt like hours before he finally reached his house. And the time it took him to go home – among the few people he’d crossed not one had watched him. Not one had looked at him. Not one had asked for an autograph, a picture. Not one had stared and whispered, not one had had that flicker of doubt and recognition in their eyes. Not one.

 

The door of his house was open but there was no one inside. Poker was gone, his sister was gone, his friends were gone, and yet when he’d left earlier, they’d all been at home, cheering for him behind a screen.

 

His house was empty, fruits rotting on the counter, clothes thrown haphazardly on the couch but coats and shoes gone from the hallway. Everyone had left, but it looked like they’d been in a hurry, hadn’t bothered to take all their belongings with them.

 

“ _Pai_?” he called anyway. “Rafaella?”

 

His voice was hoarse, his throat raw and as he called for his family he made his way to the kitchen, grabbing a water bottle from the half-empty fridge and emptying it all in one-go, gulping the cold liquid down, letting the water run down his mouth and pool at his feet. It revived him.

 

“ _Pai_?” he called again, wandering the corridors of his home. “Poker?”

 

He visited every single room but each looked like the previous one: empty, abandoned, sheets undone, clothes forgotten.

 

In one of the bathroom, used towels matted the floor, toothbrushes laid forgotten on the porcelain sink, along with half-empty bottles of perfume. He grabbed a simple looking one – white bottle with black cursive spelling out the brand. It belonged to his dad. It had run out a few years ago but his dad paid a hefty price for this fragrance to be made especially for him, and he wouldn’t leave such an expensive item open on the bathroom sink.

 

He wondered in what world he’d ended, where Camp Nou was ruins and his house empty.

 

He raised his eyes to take one last look around the bathroom, but he didn’t get much farther than the mirror.

 

Time stilled.

 

Reflected in the mirror, he could see the shower, the white tiles, the black mold in the corners they never managed to get rid of, the graying towels that would be thrown away soon and the white towels they’d bought a few weeks before. He saw everything he’d expected to see.

 

He saw everything he’d expected to see, but he didn’t see himself.

 

He didn’t realize he’d let go of the perfume until he heard the sound of it smashing on the floor, sharp edges prickling his feet and cold liquid wetting his socks.

 

He touched the mirror, pushed his fingers against it, eager to see them, to see their reflection. He could see his hand with his own eyes, yet the glass showed nothing but a lifeless bathroom, no matter what angle he took, no matter how hard he pressed, how close he got, no matter how much he squinted and rubbed his eyes until flashes of light blurred his vision. He let his fingernails scratch the surface, trying to peel off its layers, get rid of this evil that wouldn’t tell the truth.

 

He scratched and rubbed and pressed, breathing erratically, heart exploding at every beat. He begged God desperately and looked for another mirror, and another, and another, and after he’d went through every mirror in his house, after he’d broken half of them and hid the rest behind a cloth, after everything had been tried and nothing solid was left, he sat down on the cold floor of his hallway and finally embraced the truth :

 

He was dead.

 

 

–

 

 

Neymar sat on the kitchen floor, legs spread in front of him and back resting against the fridge.

 

There was the water puddle from when he’d drunk earlier. There was his dirty socks – white overcome by dirty gray, pierced here and there and sullied with a few drops of his own blood. There was his breathing, regular and faint. There was his stomach growling in hunger.

 

He felt real.

 

He took in everything around him, and everything screamed at him that he was _alive_. And yet he’d looked at every mirror, had tried every cameras in his house and they all told him the exact same thing: he wasn’t anyone anymore.

 

He was, for all intents and purposes, a ghost, haunting his own empty house.

 

A shill ran up his arms at the thought. He brought his knees up to his chest, hugging his legs to seek comfort any way he could.

 

He’d only have himself from now on, he thought. No one would ever hug him again.

 

-he didn’t want to be a ghost. It didn’t even make _sense_. It didn’t look like anything he’d ever heard or seen about ghost. He remembered his encounter with the duo at Camp Nou – they could hear him, they could feel him, yet they hadn’t seen him.

 

What kind of ghost was he? Why could he drink, why could he eat? Why could he carry items, why could he be heard? And most importantly, what evil had he done that he deserved the cruelest of the afterlives?

 

He closed his eyes, rubbing his palms over his eyelids painfully.

 

Nothing made sense.

 

If the mirrors, if his senses, if people failed him, then there was only one thing he could think of that could help him out of the confusion he was in: internet.

 

He searched the house for a computer that could have been left behind. He didn’t have to look for long, because his own laptop was still there, thrown carelessly on his bed, exactly where he’d left it.

 

He turned on the machine and settled against on his bed. His heart beat soundly, his throat becoming inexplicably dry. He realized he was nervous.

 

He hesitated a few seconds in front of the Google homepage, wondering where to start.

 

 _Neymar_ , he finally typed, pressing enter with apprehension.

 

“ **Neymar** ’s body still missing.”

“Dani Alves believes teammate **Neymar** is still alive.”

“ **Neymar** ’s shin guards found:family leaves for Brazil to organize funeral.”

“Brazil copes, **Neymar** lives on.”

“Asked about The Storm, he breaks into tears - WATCH BRAZIL INTERNATIONAL RAFINHA ALCANTARA CRY AT PRESS CONFERENCE.”

 

 

Neymar quickly went back to the blank, harmless Google homepage to get away from the onslaught of headlines. He exhaled carefully, and took a few seconds to recompose himself.

 

He tried something else – _Barcelona_.

 

“Leaders of the world offer help to Spanish government after **Barcelona** disaster.”

“Scientists unable to explain The Storm – cities bury their dead.”

“WATCH : Spain King Felipe’s tears during speech in **Barcelona** [EXCLUSIVE].”

“ **Barcelona** dead, Catalonia mourns.”

“ **Barcelona** player Gerard Pique gives money to help Barcelona in the wake of The Storm.”

“91.822 missing, 708 dead, 51 survivors.”

 

 

Tears ran down Neymar’s cheeks but he didn’t stop reading, even when he felt his heart constrict, even when it was hard to breath, even when he choked out sobs and wished, _wished_ he was dreaming. It left him breathless and dizzy, like he’d run for a mile.

 

 _9_ _1_ _822 missing, 708 dead,_ _5_ _1_ _survivors_

 

He tried no to think. Not to remember, not to imagine. His brain wasn’t big enough to process something so devastating.

 

He tried not to think about the people still buried under, about the one that had survived for days but had lacked oxygen before the rescue team found them, the one that had agonized for hours, the one that had watched their loved ones die with them. He tried not to think about the families, about the children, about the screams, the panic and the pain they must have endured. He tried not to think about his teammates.

 

He thought about his teammates.

 

He’d seen Geri’s name come up a few times, had seen pictures of him – tired eyes, cuts on his face, arm in a cast.

 

Gerard must be devastated. Barcelona was his home, it was his parent, it was his shelter. Neymar couldn’t imagine the grief one felt when 15% of their city died without them, but relief washed over him nonetheless when he saw Geri standing tall – tired, broken, but alive.

 

And with this new-found relief, with this senseless hope, he did what he’d forbidden himself – he typed _FC Barcelona players dead_ in the Google search bar.

 

 

–

 

 

Neymar wasn’t sure he’d ever really had a panic attack before. He might have had one, when he woke up underneath ruins, but he remembered that time as a fuzzy dream. It was nothing compared to the panic that took over him when he saw the list of names _missing_ and _dead_.

 

_(Samuel Umtiti.)_

 

_(Aleix Vidal.)_

 

His shirt was damp with sweat, sticking to his skin. He’d left damp prints of his own body on the floor – he wasn’t even sure how he’d managed to fall from his bed.

 

_(Denis Suarez.)_

 

_(Jeremy Mathieu.)_

 

He got up slowly, faint and feeling like his head weighted a ton. He felt weak, which he guessed was also due to the fact he hadn’t eaten in a while.

 

_(Ivan Rakitic.)_

  
 

_(Lucas Digne.)_

 

He climbed down the stairs, gripping the railway tightly not to fall _(_ _b_ _ut what did he have to fear –_ _wasn’t he already dead_ _?)._ He stumbled his way to the kitchen, until he found a stool to slump into.

 

_(André Gomes.)_

 

_(Jordi Masip.)_

 

There was a banana that didn’t look as rotten as the others – a few patches of yellow showing among the brown. He grabbed it mindlessly, peeling its skin off.

 

_(Jasper Cilessen.)_

 

_(Paco Alcacer.)_

 

The banana didn’t have any taste in his mouth. It was pasty, grainy, disgusting overall but it filled his stomach and he didn’t need much more than that.

 

_(Lionel Messi.)_

 

 

He swallowed.

 

Gods weren’t supposed to go missing. Gods weren’t supposed to die.

 


	2. The king is dead, long live the king

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neymar decides to attend one of his friend's funeral. It doesn't go as expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sup ! Sorry for the delay, but like I said, I'm quite busy this summer. It's 2 am right now so I'm going to sleep and I'll answer all your comments tomorrow, but now they were all very heart-warming ! I hope the story will go in a direction you enjoy.
> 
> I mentioned the first two chapters would be fairly angsty, so there's that, though not everything is lost. Except Neymar in real life, lost forever to crusade with the French, RIP his skinny ass.

Unlike most of his teammates, Leo’s body had been found.

 

Along with Neymar, he was the only other player who’d died even though he’d been on the pitch when The Storm had hit. Several scientists had came forward on TV to explain _how_ and _why_ survivors were more likely to be found in this area. Neymar hadn’t listened, because what he’d gathered from this was that the people in the stands had been screwed from the get-go.

 

But Leo.

 

He’d been found in the center of the ruins, near the circle drawn in white paint on the field. He’d been struck by thunder and crushed by the stadium as it crumbled down. The state he was found in had apparently made it difficult to identify him. Neymar hadn’t wanted to listen to anything beyond this point.

 

 

–

 

 

Days passed.

 

Neymar ate whatever food he could find around his house, drank icy water that made his throat freeze and took hot showers that made his skin burn. He changed his clothes. Put his dirty socks in the laundry basket. Still couldn’t see them in the mirror when they were on his feet. Still couldn’t see himself.

 

The only thing to keep him company were the flies gathering around the trash in the kitchen, the few birds that flew over his garden and the black cat that wandered on the wall of his house. Neymar wondered whether this cat had lost his owner. Maybe they’d been at Camp Nou, too.

 

He started leaving water and food outside, in case the black cat needed it.

 

He spent his days watching TV and browsing the web, caught in a numbing lethargy. Everyone talked about The Storm. Neymar learned that several countries had been hit, including a city in Japan and an oasis in the desert. He didn't really care.

 

He closed his eyes and prayed every time he heard the number, the count of _deceased_ growing as the _missing_ went down. He prayed they found peace, he prayed they met God and found a place worthy of their dedication. He hoped more than ever before that he wasn’t wrong and that God existed, because it would unbearable that those families had met their end and found no respite for their suffering.

 

From time to time, Dani, Geri, Rafinha or Andrès would pop up on the TV screen and Neymar would feel tears well up in his eyes. He couldn’t help reaching out, touching their weary faces on his screen and crying from how alive he felt and how dead they looked. But they were alive and he was dead and that seemed fair after all.

 

One week after The Storm, amidst the pundits wondering how Barcelona would cope, the tears on everyone’s faces when they remembered those they’d loved, the meetings between political leaders and the utter confusion that seemed to surround the scientific community, something new caught Neymar’s attention.

 

 

“Lionel Messi buried in Spain? Spanish authorities say body cannot be transported out of the country. Family call for help.”

 

Neymar clicked the link and frowned as he read all about the Messis’ ordeal, as they demanded to bury their son in Argentine but met the refusal of the Spanish government.

 

‘ _Spanish authorities say that while investigations are still ongoing as to the nature and the cause of The Storm, the bodies_ _are_ _to stay within_ _Spain’s jurisdiction_ _. It seems several legal issues also_ _surround_ _the case, as they fear if_ _the Messis are allowed to_ _bury their son in Argentina,_ _they will escape paying the penalty_ _previously_ _handed out to them for tax fraud._ _This_ _seems_ _to be an_ _imbr_ _o_ _glio_ _the Messis aren’t getting out of, and Barcelona officials_ _have already_ _offered their support to Messi’s family and declared_ _that, should it come to this,_ _it would be an honor to bury_ _their son_ _in_ _the city’s_ _cemetery._ _’_

 

Neymar felt anger surge in his body as he read a few other articles, and he slammed his laptop shut altogether.

 

 

–

 

 

Two weeks or so after The Storm, it appeared Leo would be buried in Barcelona.

 

Leo’s dad, weary eyes and unkept beard, had came forward on his own to announce the funeral, thanking the city for their gratuitous offer. The funeral would be a semi-public event, as the body would be driven throughout the city before being brought to Church. It would afterward be cremated privately, before Leo’s ashes were disposed of outside the city.

 

Neymar didn’t immediately understand why Leo’s funeral would be public, when he knew him to be a private guy. Leo would hate for a whole city to mourn him and for his funeral to be held with great fanfare. But after he’d watched reactions from Catalans, he realized it wasn’t really about Leo. The city was using him as a symbol, an allegory for all of those that had been fallen in Camp Nou. Leo was their Unknown Soldier, except he was as famous as one could be.

 

Neymar knew Leo would have hated this, but the city deserved to cry its loss out loud, even if they used Leo as a catharsis to do so.

 

 

–

 

 

Neymar hesitated a long time before he decided to only attend the second part of Leo’s funeral.

 

Whether he was going or not wasn’t a question – dead or not, if he was in any capacity to bid Leo farewell then he would. But he found himself fearful at the idea of entering a Church to watch the homily. He wasn’t sure ghosts were allowed in sacred places and held onto the irrational belief he’d curse Leo’s afterlife if he were to show up there.

 

He decided he’d only go to the cremation, fancied the idea that had he been alive, he’d have been invited to the private funeral, alongside his former teammates.

 

 

–

 

 

The day of the funeral, Neymar put on nice black trousers, black sneakers, and a black hoodie. He felt the need to hide even if he couldn’t be seen. As always, he stood confused in front of his mirror, watching the clothes he’d disregarded be reflected in the mirror while the one he’d just put on had disappeared along with him.

 

Fifteen days after The Storm and still nothing made sense.

 

The streets of the city were full, bustling with people, busier that they’d been in the last two weeks. Many people from all around the world had came here to mourn alongside Barcelona inhabitants but Neymar shied away from the event, walking as fast as he could to the cremation center, dodging bodies and looking down not to see the crying faces.

 

It was several hours before Leo’s body was finally brought to the cremation center where Neymar waited. The cremation center had started filling in during the past hour and Neymar had watched strangers and acquaintances enter the place with a sinister look on their faces.

 

He’d seen Xavi and Andrès, holding themselves straight in black suits. There was Gerard, shoulders slouched as he pinched his nose to stop his tears from falling, his wife’s arms around his waist to support him. There were former teammates, and a few of the players that had survived The Storm and Neymar drank in the sight of them.

 

There was also Leo’s family, his mother sobbing on a chair and his father trying to hide his tears as people came to offer their condolences. There was also his ex-girlfriend, Antonella, and Neymar had thought they’d lost contact since their break-up but here she was, red eyes and quivering lips.

 

Leo had never really told him what had happened. He talked to Luis about these things, and Neymar had learned it was over at the same time as everyone else.

 

He remembered Luis and looked around but his Uruguayan friend was nowhere to be seen. He’d been found alive in the few hours that had followed the fall of Camp Nou, but he hadn’t appeared in public once or made any official statement since, and Neymar had had to check several times the information that he was alive to be sure, afraid he’d dreamed it and that he’d have to mourn yet another friend.

 

People trickled in one after the other, and Neymar grew impatient. He knew Leo’s body was somewhere in the building and there was an itching under his skin, something creepy and morbid, but something stronger than himself, that made him fidget and pick at the skin around his nails compulsively. He tried to fight that urge, because he knew Leo would have hated it, knew it wasn’t his place or his right but Neymar was dead, he hadn’t been able to say goodbye to any of his friends and maybe that was it.

 

The urge was stronger than he was and after a few minutes he pushed away from the wall he’d been leaning against, making his way through the building in search of his friend’s coffin.

 

Oh, Leo would have hated anyone seeing his dead body, but then again, Neymar wasn’t anyone, he was no one – he was nothing but a ghost so surely ghosts had to be exceptions.

 

 

–

 

 

Neymar stood still, watching the coffin in front of him.

 

It was made of a light wood that looked expensive, varnished and gleaming under the chandelier. The wood was engraved with flowers that reminded him of Leo’s arm tattoo, some of the designs highlighted by gold.

 

Neymar had to hold back a scoff at the sight of the gaudy coffin, as though a pretty casket could make up for the fact that a corpse laid inside it.

 

He hesitated before taking the few steps that separated him from the coffin. His hand was shaking as he reached out, feeling the smooth wood under his fingers before he got the nerve to pull it open.

 

He had to swallow back a cry, producing a strangled whimper instead.

 

There was Leo’s big nose, his thin lips and his pale skin, but that was about it. Despite the make up, the foundation and blush to make it look like there was blood circulating under his skin, the cream to cover the bruises and stitches, it was painstakingly obvious that something was wrong. Neymar saw every stitches, every bruises, every dips. He saw how his skull didn’t seem quite right, how his eyebrows were gone and drawn expertly with a black crayon, how the lack of ears had been covered by a mop of stiff black hair, a few strands of which seemed to come from a wig.

 

This was Leo’s funeral but this wasn’t Leo.

 

He let go of the lid, the coffin closing back with a loud bang that had him jumping back.

 

He forced himself to exhale deeply several times, trying to get his body back under control and to stop the shaking of his hands. He felt febrile.

 

There was a loud thud, a muffled noise that reminded him of someone knocking on wood, and he twirled around, searching for the source, afraid he’d been caught.

 

Then again, no one could see him, he remembered, and his adrenaline went down at the thought.

 

No one entered the room and Neymar glanced around curiously to see what could have made that sound before a knock resounded again, lighter and sharper.

 

A man entered the room, talking out loud. “Daniel did you do that n-aaaaaand he’s not there.” From the stitched tag on his black suit Neymar identified him as one of the workers here, an undertaker. He tugged on his tie and looked around the room with a frown, muttering to himself. His face was weary and pale, and Neymar realized morticians had probably been busy these past weeks. He wondered how many corpses this man had seen already.

 

The man didn’t seem satisfied with his search, probably looking for the source of the noise Neymar had caused when he’d let go of the coffin’s top. Before going through the door to leave again, the man glanced back at the dreadful casket sitting in the middle of the room and whispered, “I hope they have football pitches in heaven.”

 

Neymar felt himself choke with the need to cry, tears coming to his eyes as the door slammed shut.

 

 

–

 

 

Neymar hadn’t planned on overstaying his welcome, even more so given that he wasn't welcome in the first place.

 

He’d been sitting outside the cremation center for the last fifteen minutes, unable to stay in the room as they burned down Leo’s corpse. He was breathing fresh air, observing the few civilians that had wandered here to pay tribute to Lionel Messi.

 

People started walking out, drying up their tears with handkerchiefs and walking close to each other, seeking comfort. He overheard a few of them talking about Leo’s ashes and Neymar remembered they were supposed to be thrown further away, in a forest on the outskirt of the city.

 

He hadn’t given any thought to the last part of this funeral but now that he sat there, he realized he wanted to assist to that, too. He wanted to know where Leo would be, so that when he looked outside he knew what direction to look in, what landscape to search for.

 

Only close family members were attending and this time Neymar was sure that had he been alive, he wouldn’t have been invited.

 

But he wasn’t alive, so when Jorge Messi climbed into his car, Neymar swiftly climbed after him. The man was too lost in his own grief to really notice when the door didn’t close immediately after him.

 

The ride was silent. Neymar looked out the window, watching the scene change, building becomes houses, houses becoming farms, farms becoming trees. He’d never really ventured in these parts, but some sights were familiar. He remembered the rare pictures the coach would willingly show the team, of himself and his family. Lucho was a privy person but Neymar remembered him owning a property around there, near the mountain, for when he wanted to spend a week-end close by and away at the same time. If he remembered correctly, he spent those days riding his bike on the quiet roads.

 

Neymar never really understood this hobby, all he knew was that Leo’s ashes would be spread around woods his coach used to walk in, and that made him feel better, somehow.

 

 

–

 

 

Neymar watched his friend’s ashes be emptied in thin air. Some of it fell on the earth where it twirled away. Most of the black dust didn’t make it to the ground, swept away by the wind, carried in between trees and flown away from his sight.

 

He felt melancholic.

 

No one spoke a word, sniffles muffled by attending family members. All that could be heard was the wind blowing in the leaves and the birds chirping a few trees away, uncaring of their grief.

 

Neymar sat down, resting against a tree, further away from the mass of relatives. He fixed his eyes on a decaying leaf, on which a few black speckles had fallen and had yet to be whisked away.

 

In complete silence, the Messis moved as one, dreadfully making their way out of the wood and back to the road where they’d parked the cars. Neymar idly thought he should be moving too, if he didn’t want to walk back to the city by himself. He had no precise idea where they were, he’d probably get lost.

 

But his eyes refused to stray away from the very last of Leo’s ashes and he listened to the distant sound of the Messis walking away, twigs breaking under their shoes, until, finally, they disappeared. He barely blinked, finding a purpose in sitting there, waiting so he could properly bid his friend farewell and stay by his side until his very last moment.

 

 

–

 

 

Neymar wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, sat against a tree, sneakers digging in the dirt. He dozed in and out, lulled by the breeze, serenaded by its rushing into a maze of branches and leaves.

 

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, but he knew when his senses came back to focus: when under the birds and the wind, he started hearing an unnatural sound.

 

He lifted his eyes, paying attention to his surrounding. It was still there, a rampant electric noise, something buzzing and creaking in the wood.

 

Someone must have been there.

 

He looked around, titling his head to see through the trees, looking up at the branches above and down at the earth, searching for a wire or a contraption of some sort. Eventually, his stare fell a few meters away, on the very leaf he’d been keeping an eye on and on the black ashes remaining in its curves. And amidst the green, brown and black, he could now see flashes of blue.

 

He blinked.

 

It looked untamed, like electricity forming and escaping in blue bursts. That wasn’t something he expected to see in a forest. It wasn’t something he expected to see anywhere, for that matter.

 

He frowned, shocked into stillness when the flashes intensified, growing in numbers and size. A mass was forming at their source – on the leaf, the three specks left of Leo’s ashes were growing, blowing up into an unrecognizable matter. It reminded him of bubbles, of boiling water, except the bubbles took shape, agglomerated and fused and grew together.

 

Neymar’s mind screamed at him to run. It told him that this wasn’t normal, that this wasn’t harmless, that he needed to go away and mull it over and over in his head until he could pretend it had been a trick of light.

 

Instead he dug his fingers into the earth and leaned forward, as mesmerized as he was scared by the little black shape growing and morphing on the ground.

 

The black shape elongated, thinning and whitening as it morphed into something hard and sturdy. It grew above and beyond, shapes crossing and meeting and separating, and it took Neymar a while to realize what the white twigs were.

 

_Bones_.

 

His heart stopped beating for a moment, when that realization dawned upon him, and he heard nothing but a white sound for the next few seconds. When it dissipated, he found himself breathing faster, sweating abundantly, filled with the uncontrollablefeeling that he was going crazy.

 

The bones in front of his eyes, growing out of dust and thin air, didn’t model into any random lump. Neymar hadn’t been attentive in school but he knew enough to recognize a skeleton, even if the skull and ribs seemed to be missing from it.

 

_Maybe this is a zombie_ , his mind supplied. _Maybe this is a horror movie_.

 

Neymar didn’t understand why he was afraid when he knew he was already dead, but as he watched ribs sprouting and a skull molding out of black ashes, he felt terrified down to his very core.

 

He wondered if the skeleton would stand up and start walking but instead the shocks of blue electricity appeared again, encased in the ribs, and some new lump grew there, almost in the middle of the ribcage, slightly to the left, completed by several tubes that slowly sprouted from it and--

 

Neymar closed his eyes for a moment.

 

That was a heart.

 

When he dared open his eyes again, veins were surfing on the bones, traveling the length of the skeleton and subdividing into tinier and tinier veins. They seemed to go nowhere but of course – _of course,_ Neymar thought deliriously – new shapes appeared for the veins to branch into, lumps squeezed inside the ribcage that could be nothing but organs.

 

Things seemed to become erratic after that, the intestine still extending as red flesh started covering the white bones. He followed the path of a vein down the pelvis as it got surrounded by flesh and muscles. Skin was already stretching around a few toes, even though the body still seemed to be lacking a brain.

 

He wasn’t sure where to look at, tissues and cells developing and popping up everywhere at once, flesh, muscles and skin materializing at the same time in an anarchic act.

 

It was only when he glanced at the chest where two pink dots had appeared that he understood _whose_ body was being conceived.

 

_(“Why’re you nip so small?”_

 

“… _Good evening to you too. I see you started drinking already.”_

 

“ _Fo’ real why-- ‘saw pics and like, it’s, it’s sad. Sad. Why’re they so small?”_

 

“ _Wait a mo, I’ll call Dani.”_

 

“ _Small. So sadetely small. ’s like they dying. Leo list- listen me hey, no- don’t leave you didn’t answer-”)_

 

This was Lionel Messi. His friend, his teammate, his mentor, Lionel Messi.

 

Neymar choked on a sob and an incredulous laughter. He remembered this moment as something embarrassing that had Leo ignoring him for days and Geri beaming at him every chances he got. It was ridiculous and meaningless and yet he remembered it clear as day, and when he looked at the two pink nipples on either sides of the newly created torso, there was no mistaking who this body belonged to.

 

This didn’t make sense.

 

This didn’t make sense, but now all he could see was the short legs, the strong thighs, the stocky feet, the small hands and the defined abs. All he could see was the hairs growing down the pelvis, on the forearms, two bushy but thin eyebrows coming above half-empty eye sockets. Every single details screamed _Messi_ at him, because he’d spent years sharing a pitch, a locker-room and sometimes a shower with that guy, he knew what he looked like, had never realized _how much_ he knew how he looked like.

 

This was Leo.

 

This was Leo’s body, shaping out of thin air, born from the ashes of his own corpse.

 

Neymar felt tears slide down his cheeks and his heart sped up, beating a hellish rhythm in every part of his body.

 

Most of the body was covered with skin now. Hairs were growing on the arms, on the thighs, on the skull. There weren’t any of the tattoos Leo was supposed to have – not the black ink on his leg, not the pink roses on his arm. But the face took shape, and Neymar recognized its contours, the dip on the shin, the long nose, the thin lips. He watched with something close to wonder as a myriad of eyelashes grew on closed eyelids, resting on soft white cheeks.

 

And then nothing.

 

Neymar held his breath. Even the wind and the birds seemed to have gone silent.

 

A second, and then a sharp inhale, eyes flashing open, a chest heaving up and down erratically and moans of pain.

 

Leo breathed with difficulty, as though every beat of his heart was an ordeal. He held onto dead leaves, body tensing and writhing on the ground as his eyes looked everywhere around him. His eyes passed by Neymar’s tree and he found panic and agitation in them.

 

Before he had time to think about it, he crawled towards his friend.

 

“Leo, Leo-”

 

Leo’s eyes widened and he looked even worse, fear spreading into his eyes.

 

“Wait yo-”, Neymar came next to him, touched his shoulder but Leo flinched back violently, kicking his leg in front of him and sending Neymar on his ass.

 

Of course, he couldn’t see him.

 

“Leo,” he called again, voice dropping with helplessness. Nevermind his confusion and incredulity, his friend was freaking out and Neymar had to help him. He just meant to reassure Leo, but of what use was a ghost that no one could see?

 

“Ney?” Leo’s voice came out, hoarse and raspy. He managed to sit up, but Neymar could see his muscles trembling, his mouth half open as he panted. “Ney, where-”

 

“Here, just-”

 

“Where-  Ney-”

 

“It’s ok you can’t-” Neymar reached for his hand tentatively but Leo recoiled. “I-”

 

“God,” Leo put his dirty hand against his face, dirtying it with soil. “ _God_ -”

 

Neymar couldn’t stop his tears. “Leo, it’s ok, I… You’re alright.”

 

Leo caught his head between his two hands, pressing his palms against his ears to block the noises from reaching him. To block Neymar’s voice from reaching him.

 

That was why ghosts weren’t supposed to interact with the living. A sob caught in Neymar’s throat and Leo curled on himself.

 

He felt like crying. Actually, he was pretty sure he was crying. Leo had been panicking and trying to help him, Neymar had made it worse. He’d made him think he was crazy. He slammed his fists on the ground with rage, wishing, just _wishing_ that Leo could see him, wishing so badly for Leo not to be lost on his own in the forest. Just for a minute, just for a moment, he wanted Leo to see a friend at his sides, he wanted Leo to see him. He wanted this as badly as a starved man wanted to eat, as badly as an addict needed a smoke.

 

He bit the inside of his cheek, frustration and anger overtaking the despair in his brain. When he started tasting blood on his tongue, a fog seemed to clear in his head, something heavy and thick he hadn’t realized was there but that left him a tiny bit lighter.

 

Maybe he’d reached a ghost milestone. He’d finally understood this was what his life had come to – being nothing more than a voice to become his dearest friends’ nightmares.

 

“I’m sorry,” he cried with his head down, kneeling and pressing his fists against the ground. “I’m so sorry,” he sobbed, as though it mattered.

 

A few seconds passed where all he could hear was the sound of his own sobs. Leo probably heard them too, but Neymar couldn’t stop crying and he couldn’t leave Leo alone either.

 

Then, out of nowhere, something tugged on his hair.

 

No one really touched his hair, apart from himself and his hairdresser. The only times he didn’t care was during matches, when the elation of a game made him uncaring of the way he looked. In these moments, after a goal, during a celebration, there was always a teammate to reach for his hair, to grab a curl or two and tug on it, pull it, like someone pinching Neymar to reassure him that this was real. Neymar never minded, maybe because this teammate always turned out to be Leo.

 

The lone curl was released and he felt fingertips brush against his forehead.

 

He lifted his head and stared wide-eyed at Leo’s face. Leo met his eyes straight on. And for the first time in weeks, Neymar had the sensation of being _seen_.

 

“L-”

 

“Ney,” Leo called, breathless and disbelieving but calmer than minutes ago. He felt his palm, rough against his cheeks, dirty with soil and sweat.

 

Neymar sat still, frozen and in shock.

 

“How…?”

 

“Where were you,” Leo rasped, a hint of urgency in his voice. “I couldn’t-Why couldn’t I…?”

 

“You can see me?” Neymar choked.

 

Leo grabbed his face too tightly, his short nails digging into his cheek. “What’s happening,” he asked, eyes searching his face for answers. “What’s happening?,” he repeated.

 

Neymar had no idea what was happening.

 

“Where am I? What happened to me?” Leo insisted, dropping his hand and looking painfully at his own body. He was shaking slightly. “I thought-- I thought I’d been locked up. Couldn’t even move my legs, I...” Leo trailed off, searching for words and swallowing with difficulty.

 

Locked up? He had no idea what Leo was saying.

 

“It… burnt. So much, I thought--” Leo flinched, reaching up to rub his eyes, as though trying to erase images in his head.

 

Images in his head. Images of being locked up. Of burning.

 

Neymar remembered a coffin made of fine wood and pretty engravings.

 

An idea breezed past his mind, something silly and impossible but that gave him the immediate urge to throw up.

 

He didn’t have time to explore the thought because Leo caught his arm and edged towards him.

 

“What happened?” he asked again, more forceful this time, spurred by anxiety.

 

“I don’t know,” Neymar answered pitifully, apologetically. “I don’t know, I’m so-.”

 

“Why am I there? Why am I naked?” Leo insisted, holding onto Neymar’s shoulders. He hadn’t listened to his answer, or he refused to hear it. “What am I doing there?”

 

“I don’t-”

 

“What are _you_ doing there?”

 

“You were dead,” Neymar relented, voice quavering. He didn’t dare look into Leo’s eyes to see how he took the news.

 

Leo took it that way:

 

“No,” he said.

 

“Yes,” Neymar answered, nodding. “ _Yes_.”

 

“I can’t-”

 

Neymar looked up, facing the confusion and pain in his mentor’s eyes. “ _You were_.” Leo opened his mouth, a protest on his tongue but Neymar shook his head, pushing his arms away. “Not here,” he begged. “Not here.”

 

Leo looked torn, about to resist and demand more and immediately. Just when it looked like he would grab him again, his hands fell into his lap. He gave up and he looked small, fragile like a child. “I don’t even know where here is,” he mumbled.

 

“Oh, Leo,” Neymar’s voice broke and he acted before he thought, wrapping both his arms around Leo’s back and pressing him against himself. “God, Leo,” he repeated, overwhelmed with worry and guilt.

 

His face in the crook of Leo’s neck, he could feel his pulse and hear his breathing next to his ear. He could feel his heart beating. It was beating.

 

“You were dead,” he murmured, emphasizing the words, to make Leo understand how serious the situation was, how horrible it had been.

 

Leo returned the hug, embrace weaker than Neymar remembered. His hands curled into the fabric of his hoodie and he let himself tremble into his arms. He probably needed the comfort as much if not more than Neymar right now.

 

 

–

 

 

He needed to get Leo out of here. This was the conclusion he’d came to while he was hugging him.

 

Leo was shivering from the cold, hairs stranding on end all over his naked skin. He was dirty with soil, dead leaves and dirt sticking to his back, to his legs, to his hands. He looked terrible.

 

Neymar bet he looked terrible too.

 

“We, we need to leave,” he whispered, slowly releasing his hold on Leo.

 

He thought he felt Leo tense up for a moment but then he was drawing back easily and Neymar might have dreamed his reluctance.

 

“Find you clothes-- food. You’re alive, you need to-” _join the living again_

 

Leo shook his head. “I need to know what happened to me,” he said. He didn’t sound as desperate as before, not as obstinate, but it was there and Neymar knew there was no escaping this. But Neymar, selfishly, didn’t want to be the guy to tell Leo about Camp Nou and the 90 000 bodies under it.

 

Still. “I’ll tell you. I promise but-- not here.”

 

Leo stared at him but didn’t protest. Neymar tried to get it back together. He felt a bit calmer now, focusing on one task to forget everything else: he needed to get Leo home. Needed to help his friend, save one of them at least.

 

He looked around the forest, at the path that led back to the road. Leo was naked, and there was no way they could walk all the way back to the city.

 

Neymar stood up, hastily taking off his hoodie. “Here,” he said, handing it to Leo. He started taking off his shoes too, so he could then strip of his trousers, and really of all of his clothes. Leo was alive, he needed clothes, and Neymar was a dead-man walking. It didn’t matter if he was naked, since no one could see him.

 

No one but Leo, that was.

 

“What are you doing?” Leo asked, stopping him before he could take off his pants.

 

“Giving you my clothes. You can’t go back naked.”

 

“Neither can you.”

 

“It’s fine, no one can see me since I’m--” Neymar cut himself off. The look on Leo’s face said he wouldn’t let it go, wouldn’t let Neymar postpone explanations if he insisted on telling him he was a ghost. It was better to tell Leo everything while he was sitting somewhere safe and sound and warm. “Look just, take it.”

 

Leo considered him for a moment. Then, he started moving, picking his legs from under himself, pushing with his arms. He wanted to stand up. His muscles were shaking still, and he looked weak and fragile like he never did before. For the first time since he’d known him, Leo looked as small as he was supposed to be.

 

Neymar gave him an arm and helped him up, pulling him, supporting him until he found stability on his two feet. Leo opened the zipper of his hoodie and wrapped it around his hips. He tied it on his right hipbone, hands trembling either from cold, from fatigue or from fear, or from a bit of the three.

 

When he was done, Leo had successfully hid his penis and his ass, wearing the hoodie like a home-made skirt.

 

“This should be ok,” he mumbled, voice raspy.

 

Neymar made to take off his shirt to give it to Leo too but a hand on his arm stopped him.

 

“It’ll be ok,” Leo said.

 

He really wasn’t in any position to tell Neymar things would be ok.

 

Still he refused his shirt, only accepting the shoes he’d already taken off. Neymar was left walking in socks, small rocks poking the sole of his feet.

 

And dressed like this, the both of them looking terrible, they started heading out of the forest. Leo leaned his weight on him, Neymar’s arm around his waist to support him. With each new steps, it became clearer that Leo was regaining strength and could carry himself on his own but he didn’t step back, didn’t stop leaning on Neymar. He was seeking contact, and because Neymar was too, he didn’t mention it.

 

When they finally reached the empty road where their dreadfulprocession had came from, Neymar figured out where the two of them could go.

 

“Lucho’s cottage,” he breathed out. He remembered passing it by car, remembered the familiar landscape. It hadn’t been far from there, a bit down the road, and Neymar hadn’t seen it fully but he should find his way there. He had Lucho’s holiday pictures etched into his mind now and they didn’t seem willing to go away.

 

“Lucho,” he repeated. “He’s got this small house not far away, we can go there.”

 

“Won’t he mind?” Leo wondered at his sides.

 

Neymar thought about Lucho.

 

 

_ (Pep Guardiola says Luis Enrique was a ‘great coach, a great teammate and an even greater friend’_

_ WATCH : MOURINHO’S TEARS. Chelsea coach cries when journalists announce him Luis Enrique’s body was found._

_ 'HE’LL BE SLEEPING WITH THE GIANTS’ – Cruyff’s son gives emotional speech about deceased Barcelona coach Luis Enrique_)

 

“No,” he finally answered. “No he won’t mind.”

 

 

–

 

 

There were pictures of Lucho’s kids on the wall.

 

Neymar sat staring at them. Lucho had been strict but indulgent, hard-headed but fair. He’d let them have their fun and rarely joined in, rarely shared much of himself, but in the pictures hanging on the wall, he was open and happy.

 

Neymar had the urge to take everything off the wall and throw it away, hide it somewhere it couldn’t haunt him with grief and guilt.

 

_If Lucho was alive, he’d be happy to help_ , he told himself, again and again.

 

The shower was running in the adjacent room, He’d asked Leo if he needed help but Leo had refused and he’d been in the shower these past fifteen minutes. Neymar couldn’t help imagining him fainting and falling in the shower, cracking his head on the ceramic. The only reason he hadn’t barged in yet was because he apprehended seeing Leo bleed out on a white floor, and because the walls were thin enough that he heard him when he leaned against the shower walls.

 

Leo looked like he needed time to recompose himself and to gather his own thoughts. Neymar had needed time too, when he’d came back home and found out he was dead.

 

When Leo came out of the shower, a thick fog escaped the bathroom and the room’s temperature increased by several degrees.

 

He was wearing clothes that didn’t quite fit on his frame – a wide black shirt and large trousers he needed to hold up with a belt so they didn’t fall. Those were clothes they’d scavenged from a closet and he figured Lucho must have worn them, once.

 

Leo sat down on the couch and stared at the wall with him.

 

They sat in silence for a few minutes, nothing but the sound of their breathing to fill the air.

 

“Tell me what happened,” Leo said, voice soft but decided.

 

Neymar rubbed his face. In the back of his mind, he’d wished Leo’s time in the shower would have dissuaded him from probing.

 

“You remember the thunder?” he finally said. “In Camp Nou, at the end of the match.”

 

Leo nodded.

 

“They call it The Storm. The media and stuff. Don’t know what caused it but—it struck Camp Nou, and like, other places in the world, I don’t, I don’t remember where.” Neymar realized how shameful it was that he hadn’t bothered to check what had happened in other cities, but they seemed meaningless compared to the 90 000 bodies buried under Camp Nou. “It struck Camp Nou, and it, it crumbled. Fell down. You see? Like, completely-” He gestured with his hand to demonstrate the things his words couldn’t describe. He realized his hands were shaking.

 

“Completely,” he resumed in a whisper. “Fell on everyone. On us, and everyone. It--” A deep breath. “It killed you.” A sharp inhale. “We found your dead body under the ruins.”

 

He kept his eyes on the wall, too cowardly to look at Leo.

 

“It can’t-” Leo sounded unsure, disbelieving at best.

 

“I saw your body,” Neymar interrupted. “In the, in the cremation center. Your body in the coffin. You were _dead_. No heartbeat, no nothing just-- dead.” He felt how Leo went still at his sides. “It was just hours ago, there was- a ceremony, and then your body was cremated and-”

 

A noise escaped Leo’s mouth, something like a whine that wouldn’t quite be, and by the look on Leo’s face, he’d remembered. Neymar’s urge to throw up came back full force with the forbidden thought of _he woke up just before_.

 

He did his best to erase this thought but Leo didn’t spare him, bluntly stating, “I woke up.”

 

Neymar clenched his eyes shut, curled his hands into his pants. He remembered hearing a knock on the wood back then, and he couldn’t help wondering---

 

“You woke up,” he confirmed.

 

He’d woken up. In the coffin, before they cremated his corpse, he’d woken up, and they had burned him alive.

 

Neymar shoved a hand against his mouth to stop himself from sobbing or from throwing up. The thought was unbearable, uncontainable and he needed to take it out, so he bit down on a finger, wouldn’t have hesitated on drawing blood if a pained noise hadn’t escaped from his left.

 

He chanced a glance at his side where Leo sat, and found a haunted look in his eyes, something distant and raw. His body was tense, stiff and he looked ready to curl into a ball and die. Neymar reached out to catch his hand and Leo latched onto it, gripped it like a vise, like he’d fall to his death if he didn’t hold onto it.

 

“And,” Neymar’s voice sounded strange, unwelcome in the room. He cleared his throat. “And they spread your ashes in the forest. Right at the spot where you- woke up. I sat there and I--- you came back to life. I watched your body take shape, _out of nowhere_.”

 

He felt Leo’s nails dig into his palm, his body so tense he thought his bones would break from it. Usually, Leo chewed on his nails, a nervous habit he’d never been able to drop, but these nails, these brand-new nails, they were clipped short, round and neat.

 

“You came back to life.” Neymar stated, and he didn’t know whether to cry or to laugh.

 

Leo gripped his own arm, the one where a tattoo was supposed to be, and his eyes seemed lost in the emptiness.

 

“I couldn’t have been dead,” he whispered. “I felt like I was asleep.”

 

“But you were,” Neymar insisted. “You were. You weren’t just dead, your were _ashes_.”

 

“Something like that can’t be,” Leo said, letting go of his hand and putting an angry scowl on his face although he didn’t seem angry at Neymar as much as at his own inability to make sense of things.

 

“It can. I’m dead too, right? Maybe God is just playing tricks on us.”

 

“You’re not dead.”

 

“I am,” Neymar countered. “I’m a ghost.” And before Leo could protest, “When you woke up, you heard me right? But you couldn’t see me.”

 

Leo’s eyes glazed over as he remembered, but his eyes anchored themselves in his and he didn’t seem willing to look away.

 

“I could feel your touch. I thought I was going mad.”

 

“That’s because I’m a ghost. I don’t know why you can see me now-- maybe, maybe because you came back from the other side, but I’m a _ghost_.”

 

“That’s impossible.”

 

“I am,” Neymar insisted. “No one can- could see me. Heard me but saw through me. And I, I looked at every mirror and-- I’m not there Leo. I’m just not.”

 

“I can _touch_ you. You gave me clothes.” Leo looked around and got up suddenly. He disappeared into the bathroom and seconds later he came back with a hand mirror.

 

“Leo, come on-”

 

But Leo wouldn’t listen. He stood behind Neymar and held the mirror in front of him. Neymar stubbornly looked down at his lap, refusing to face his lack of reflection, _again_.

 

And then, enunciating carefully, Leo spoke out. “Like I said, you are not a ghost.”

 

Instinctively, Neymar’s head jerked up, a scowl on his face. “What are you-”

 

He cut himself short.

 

His eyes went wide and he could do nothing more but stare at the mirror in Leo’s hand. He could see a man with brown skin, tattoos on his arm and neck, and curly black hair. A man with clear brown eyes that looked tired and worn out, with dried lips and a stubble. He saw a man, whose eyes were unblinking, whose mouth was half-open and whose breath made the mirror go misty.

 

He saw a man, and this man was him.

 

He took the mirror from Leo’s hands, gripping it tightly as tears sprung to his eyes.

 

“How-” He choked. “It can’t-” He couldn’t see himself very well anymore, mist hiding his image every time he exhaled and tears making his vision go blurry, but despite that he could still guess his silhouette, his presence behind that steam. He wiped it away, leaving ugly fingerprints on the glass. Any other day he would have found himself ugly but today, today he found himself beautiful. “I checked,” he said, “All the mirrors, I checked all of them.”

 

He broke down, hugging the hand mirror to himself.

 

Leo wrapped his arms around him, pressing his head between his shoulder blades. He didn’t say anything, wasn’t a man of many words, but he took him in his arms and held securely, and Neymar should have felt bad, because Leo had been burnt alive and he shouldn’t be the one needing a hug, because they were in Lucho’s home and Lucho would never be anymore, because there were still thousands of bodies missing from Barcelona and it wasn’t fair that Neymar wasn’t one of them **,** because Geri’s grief, because Rafinha’s tears, because Andrès and Sam and Jordi and everyone---

 

He should have felt bad, but all he could feel was _alive_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note :  
> In case you do not know, "The king is dead, long live the king" was a saying used when a king died, meaning that when a king dies, another one immediately replace him. It symbolizes the continuity of the monarchy and the state. Kings may die but the monarchy doesn't.
> 
> Also, clue if you're interested : next chapter shall be titled 'it's not size, it's what you do with it'.


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